Lord Harry by Catherine Coulter

“Out with it, Pottson. Don’t you see that I must know everything now if we are to pull through this mess without a scandal that would rock all of London? What is the girl’s damned name?”

“She’s Miss Henrietta Rolland, your grace.” Oh gawd, what would happen now? She’d kill him, Pottson knew it. He’d betrayed her, yet what could he do?

Henrietta Rolland, he thought blankly. That lovely young lady at the Ranleaghs’ ball who’d fascinated him and who’d liked him very much as well until she’d learned who he was. Sir Archibald’s daughter, Jack’s sister she’d left Sir Archibald’s house rather than dine with him. And the dowdy female at his aunt Melberry’s soiree who’d made his eyes cross just to look at her, yet she’d taunted him and mocked him until until she’d realized that to continue just made him all the more curious. Then she’d become a vulgar, obnoxious twit. And as Lord Harry she’d turned her attention to Melissande, she’d even taunted him that he wasn’t enough of a man for his mistress. A girl, no, a young lady of quality had said that to him. He didn’t understand any of it. Why the devil did she hate him? Had she assumed the identity of a young gentleman just to kill him? It was fantastic, utterly without sense to him. He pulled himself together. “Ride with Silken. I will see to her. Dammit, man, go now.”

He settled her in his arms and yelled out the carriage window, “Spring’em, Silken! If they’re blown, we’ll change them at Smithfield. Hurry, I want to be at Thurston Hall in an hour.”

Silken took his master at his word, and Lord Oberlon clutched her more tightly to his chest to keep her steady as the carriage lurched and swayed over the rutted ground. He gently pulled back the greatcoat that covered her and carefully eased up her shirt. The wadded handkerchief was nearly soaked with blood. He placed his fingers atop the wound and pressed down. He tried to cradle her as best he could with his free hand, and drew the greatcoat over her.

He stared down into her pale, still face. Henrietta was the beauty of the family, Louisa had said. His eyes followed the slender column of her neck to the firm smooth chin, a stubborn chin, he thought, bloody stubborn and determined. Just look at all she’d done. He looked closely at the high cheekbones, the straight, proud nose, the thick, fair lashes lying in wet spikes on her cheeks. How strange that looking down at her now, everything made sense the myriad parts he had thought about so fancifully now fit perfectly together. She had Jack’s blond hair. Curling ringlets were working themselves loose from the black ribbon at her neck, and the thick pomade no longer held the curls back from her forehead. Were she conscious, he knew her eyes would be as light and pure a blue as the summer sky. He also knew she would stare at him with contempt and hatred. She would mock him. She would be more arrogant than he himself had ever been at her age. But she hadn’t killed him. She’d pulled up. He could still see the foil as it swung gently back and forth in the early morning breeze.

I think you were born a fool and will most certainly leave this world an equal fool, he told himself, shaking his head at his blindness.

It was often said that the clothes made the man. He was now inclined to believe, rather, that one saw what one expected to see. Lord Monteith dressed as a gentleman, talked like a gentleman and partook in all the gentleman’s sports. Everyone had accepted him as such. Now, gazing down at her undeniably female face, he was forced to admit with rueful admiration that she had pulled the wool over everyone’s eyes. Even Melissande. He laughed aloud at that. Melissande accepting all the flattery, the riding costume, the mare. It was marvelous, by God, bloody unbelievable and he’d been taken in like all the rest.

Ah, but why had she hated him so much as to force a duel upon him? Why Jack’s sister, in particular? It made no sense to him. He could bring Pottson into the carriage with him and demand the reason. Yet, somehow, he wanted to hear from her own lips why she’d planned and executed this outrageous charade. He realized, too, his hand covered with her blood, that his most pressing concern wasn’t to discover her motives, but rather to save her life.